Deer Morris
by Harthad
Summary: Crutchie decides to break the ice and forgive Morris about what happened during the strike. One-shot.


It had only been some months since the strike. Some months that had quickly brought on the changing weather from sunny, bright cheery days to cool, evening nights filled with brisk air and some snow flurries. The same bond the newsies had forged was still there, as it always had been. Same key players in the wide, dramatic stage of New York City. The same jokes and teases were tossed around, along with the same jibes shouted to the Delancey brothers. Crutchie stood in line to get his papers, not really concentrating on all the hustle and bustle that swarmed around him. For once, he was just enjoying the autumn sun. Autumn. Another big word he had learned from Jack through Katherine, who probably taught him all those reporter words—words that only Davey really knew. Crutchie limped forward up behind Race, waving a hand to Specs as he walked off. Crutchie stopped at the Distribution Office, leaning on the wooden surface with a smile. "Beautiful day, ain't it, Morris?"

Morris gave him a look, and handed him his papers. Crutchie took the bundle with his same old smile, shoving them in his bag with a rustle and crinkle of fresh newsprint. "Dunno why you gotta be so glum 'bout a nice day like this one," Crutchie forged ahead, but Morris simply ignored him. Crutchie rolled his eyes a bit, limping down the walkway. Maybe some folks just gotta be like that, he thought to himself. Not 'ppreciate what's around 'em. After all, he was still livin' an' breathin'. Crutchie was thankful for that, sure, but he didn't really know why Morris wasn't. He glanced over his shoulder to see the Delanceys heckling another customer, but walked on ahead. The sky above was a dreary overhang of musty clouds, with the wind carefully caressing golden, red and brown leaves from small trees until they swirled away. The loud, clear voices of newsies hawking the headlines joined the cool autumn air, along with the daily news that most everyone needed, or wanted to hear. Crutchie limped along as his paper bag grew lighter and his pockets grew heavier with the chiming of coins. After taking a look up at the sky and reflecting that the sun would probably come out later on today—he stopped. Stopped short right in the center of a sidewalk. Crutchie's mind flew back to this morning's events at the Distribution Office—dull as they were—and then even farther back to the strike. A sudden chill came over him, and it wasn't from the wind—because how could the wind send guilt his way, too? Quickly he took a glance this way and that, taking out a newspaper from his bag. He limped over to a doorstep, grabbing a small pencil Katherine had given him. Crutchie hadn't really known what to use it for—but now he did, of course. He had never written a letter before—all his closest friends were the ones he saw each day, here in the city. Amid the dry doorstep surrounded by gently falling leaves, he began to write in his chicken scrawl of hand.

"Deer….Morris," he muttered, and reached up absentmindedly to scratch his head. Was that too hoity-toity of him to start it with 'Deer'? "I know we ain't exactly been on speakin' terms….forever. But there are some times when we gotta just….let that go, you know? I wanted to say….I'm sorry for treatin' you like the other fellas do. Maybe you forget what we say to ya, I know, but still, I felt like I needed tah say I was sorry. Look, we don't know what goes on with you, Oscar an' Mistah Wiesel. An' maybe you don't know what goes on in our lives (well actually, they'se pretty borin')—" He smiled quickly to himself. "But you deserrved an apology from me. And…" Crutchie paused, thinking back to the strike. He took a deep breath before writing the next sentence. "A forgiveness. Fer the strike, you know? You was jus' doin' what you thought needed to be done. An' so was I. Maybe things is jus' goin' to be the same as they always was, but I hopes you find this letter. An' you reads it, of course. From Crutchie."

Crutchie glanced up to the sky as the first glimmers of sun were just beginning to peek through the blotchy clouds. He grabbed his crutch, slipping the letter into his pocket. Crutchie stood up, determinedly making his way through the streets of his city again. He felt as though something had been lifted off his back—pressure, maybe. He even started whistling a bit as he went on back to the Distribution Center to return the papers he hadn't sold. Crutchie kept a steady pace so to not seem suspicious as he limped up to the counter. He reached a hand inside his pocket to draw out the letter, just barely meeting the eyes of Morris Delancey, who stood there, waiting impatiently.

"C'mon, I don't got all night," Morris said irritably, and Crutchie lifted his three newspapers onto the counter. "There ya go," Crutchie said brightly. "Thanks, Morris."

Crutchie walked away while whistling another tune, hoping that he had just made someone's day a little bit brighter. Well, if he found the letter at all.


End file.
